Too Sore For Sight
by K9Lasko
Summary: Aging is not always graceful.


Summary: Aging is not always graceful.  
Rating: FR13 (NFA) / K+ ( )  
Characters: DiNozzo and Gibbs  
NFA Challenge: "How Could I Be Lost"

**Notes:** This short story is set several years in the future. Gibbs is having a tough time with his memory - and the facts of reality that come with growing old. Meanwhile, Tony - having lost his job and his health - has nothing much left for himself, but still tries to watch out for Gibbs.

* * *

**Too Sore For Sight**

"How could I be lost?" Gibbs asked a nearby mailbox as he peered through rheumy eyes at yet another stretch of identical town homes. He'd gotten turned around somewhere; he couldn't figure out how or where or even when that had happened. This was meant to be a simple pre-supper walk - an activity he was known to do daily, to hell with the staff who warned and cajoled him to stay put - except today he'd chosen a new route. A fresh route that passed a duck pond before twisting through this development of carbon copy homes.

There was a golf course nearby, and he could catch glimpses of it through the gaps between houses. Crisscrossed by blacktopped cart paths, the course extended towards a distant tree line. The grass was brown, in various stages of dormancy. A pair of black birds pecked urgently at the turf.

But now he was definitely lost. Damn it all. _How_ could he be lost? He hadn't even been walking for long. Mentally, he attempted to retrace his steps, but his mind seemed caught up in a fog. Gibbs cursed loudly at a can of uncollected trash and came to a stop at a deserted intersection.

The neighborhood was primarily residential, and the early evening was quiet. He heard a basketball slapping against pavement a few houses up. Across the street, another house had pumpkins and dried corn stalks propped near the front door as decoration; the brown leaves rattled in the breeze. A chilly breeze. The late October air was already nipping through his thin clothing. He hadn't been dressed for a meandering hike, which was what this outing had become.

His frustration at his own helplessness grew. It was a black and ugly emotion that he tried to keep in check, but as the days progressed, Gibbs knew his world was shrinking, and it would continue to shrink until he knew of nothing and nobody in it.

He continued walking, working muscles that stretched like old elastic and moving joints that had started to stiffen. The trees in the distance began to swallow the sun's weak rays; the rows and rows of town homes remained unchanged. No familiar landmarks. No recognizable street names. No gut instinct that beckoned him this way or that. Gibbs' eyes could still see but, functionally, he was no better than a blind person.

Suppertime came and went, and the rapidly encroaching darkness beckoned the cold. Gibbs imagined his meds sitting on his countertop. Untaken, past the deadline. His frustration rose, unbidden. This was what he was - what he'd become. Years of hard work and independence had earned him a meager pension and a room in an assisted living facility. Emotionally washed up and used up. His body was strong, but his mind was a shoreline sinking into the sea.

If he had any tears left, Gibbs would have wept for what he'd given up. His home and his life. He'd wanted to stay in that house until his death, wanted to build and create in that basement until his body gave out.

Gibbs hadn't considered the alternative. It had taken a fair bit of convincing, but after losing his drivers' license and leaving the gas on twice in as many days, his fate had been sealed.

It's a nice place, they said. The brochures confirmed it.

Looking again at the unfamiliar surroundings, Gibbs' hand pawed for the cell phone tucked deep in a pocket. His fingers were cold and stiff, but he still managed revive the device from its sleep. He barely recognized any of the names in his contacts. He swore he knew them this morning. God, he was confused as hell.

But at least one stood out. "McGee - Home." He tapped at it clumsily.

Somebody on the other end was courteous enough to pick up after the second ring. "Hello?" A child's voice. A little girl by the sound of it.

Gibbs' tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Wait, who had he called?

"Helloooo?" The girl repeated.

He hung up and kept walking.

* * *

A silver car pulled slowly up to the curb, crossing over to the wrong side of the street so that the drivers' side door paralleled the sidewalk. Gibbs hobbled along, unmoved by the sudden appearance of the unfamiliar car. He warily eyed it once or twice as it idled along beside him, tires crunching on gutter's grit.

The window rolled down, and a fuzzy head stuck out. "Need a lift, boss?"

Gibbs didn't stop, but he did look towards the driver, a man who looked like he'd pushed fifty at least a few years ago. He had graying hair and deep crow's feet near hazel eyes. Gibbs blinked at this person who seemed so familiar yet inspired no emotion or recognition. "I'm fine," Gibbs growled.

"C'mon. It's cold," the man insisted.

Gibbs eyes glued themselves to the sidewalk as he quietly racked his mind for who this was and why he knew him.

"You're shivering. I can see your hands shaking from here."

Gibbs shoved his hands under his armpits. "Why are you here?" These were the questions he used. Not "who are you?" or "why do you know me?" Those kinds of questions only inspired sadness, disappointment, or even tears, on occasion - depending on the person being asked.

"McGee called me," the man replied.

"McGee," Gibbs repeated, staring straight ahead now, feet moving in a determined march.

"Yes." The car idled on, no need for a tap on the gas pedal. "You called him. His kid answered."

"His kid," Gibbs again parroted.

"You need a lift, boss." This time it wasn't posed as a question. "Get in."

A maroon minivan with Maryland plates came from the opposite direction and, slowing only slightly and with a rude tap of the horn, pulled around the crawling silver car before continuing on its way.

"I know you don't know who I am right now, but just get in."

Gibbs stopped and stared at the man, considering his few options. The car came to a halt beside him.

"C'mon, boss. We'll stop for dinner on the way back."

Trying to ignore the small break in the man's voice, Gibbs silently relented. He crossed in front of the car and slowly got in on the passenger side. Tony's hand reached out and turned a knob on the dash, turning the heat up for Gibbs' sake.

Tony. Gibbs' mind turned, but, much like a broken down engine, refused to roar to life.

There was a bracelet around Tony's wrist made from a collection of colorful round beads and lettered beads that spelled out "very special uncle." It was a crude work of art, sloppily tied off, and obviously the work of a small child. Gibbs stared at it for what seemed like minutes, watching as Tony moved his hand to the gear shifter and then back to the wheel.

Tony glanced his way, eyes wary. Worried. "What is it?"

"Tony," Gibbs said, voice quiet.

Tony looked surprised at first. But then he smiled and nodded, eyes turning back to the road. "Yeah. Your one and only."

They rode in silence. Tony stole several glances at Gibbs, doing so as long as he could without risking running off the road.

"Is there a problem, DiNozzo?" Gibbs finally snapped.

Again Tony smiled. Apparently it didn't take much. He shook his head and pulled the car into the parking lot of a busy diner. "Hungry?"

"No," Gibbs lied.

"Well, too bad. I'm buying you a hamburger."

* * *

"You shouldn't wander off like that." Tony finished the last French fry on his plate, dragging it through a pond of Heinz 57 before shoving it in his mouth. Ketchup clung to his lip. The only things left on the plate were crumbs, congealing ketchup, and a wilted piece of iceberg lettuce.

Gibbs had barely picked at his meal. "I wasn't wandering," he said evenly. "I went for a walk."

Tony reached over and began working on a few of Gibbs' fries. He licked the ketchup from his lip as he chewed with his mouth half open. "But you got lost."

"I didn't get lost," Gibbs ground out.

"So you're gonna call McGee every time you go for a walk and can't find your way back?" Tony reached for more ketchup.

Gibbs watched his shrinking pile of fries. His mind still felt cloudy. He may have known Tony's name, but he still felt like he barely knew the man it belonged to. He then watched as Tony chewed on more fries, leaned back and rubbed his belly. Gibbs asked, "You still working?"

Tony blinked and frowned. "You know I'm not, boss."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

Gibbs may have known, but he couldn't remember. He wondered briefly if he'd wake up one day to find he couldn't remember DiNozzo at all. All he could think to do was nod.

"You should eat," Tony said, gesturing at the barely chewed on burger.

"Don't tell me what I should or should not do." Gibbs snapped as he picked up the smallest of the fries. "I'm getting old, not turning into a child."

"I'm just trying to make sure you're okay."

Gibbs pushed the plate away with more force than necessary. "Don't you have anything better to do with yourself, DiNozzo? A girlfriend? Wife?" He paused. "A child?"

Tony didn't answer. He pulled a worn wallet from his pocket and put a few bills on the table. "If you keep wandering around and getting lost, we'll have to do something about it."

Gibbs stared hard at Tony.

"What if it had been the dead of winter, huh? What if you can't call McGee, or anybody else for that matter? What if no one comes looking for you?"

"So what'll you do about it?"

"It's 'what'll _we _do,' boss."

Gibbs kept staring.

"There are other places, Gibbs. I've already-"

"No." Gibbs got up and pulled on his light jacket. He hobbled towards the door. "Thanks for dinner."

Night had fallen hard on the diner parking light. Clouds covered the moon, and the concrete glowed from both the streetlights and the neon glow of the flashing "open" sign. It seemed to have gotten colder, and the wind had picked up. The air smelled like winter. Snow and burning wood and near-frozen gasoline. Gibbs didn't know where he was going, but he needed to be away from Tony. His mind was still confused, missing pieces here and there. He passed by a pregnant woman slouched next to a newspaper dispenser while smoking a Newport. He stopped at a railroad tie that marked the edge of the parking lot and stared out at the rush of traffic on the highway. Finally, he turned and watched Tony follow him out.

Tony had a limp. A bad one.

Gibbs looked back at the road without emotion. "Nobody is sending me to a nursing home, Tony," he spoke loudly enough to be heard over the noise of traffic. "I sold my house, my home, to give you peace of mind. Now what, Tony, now what? I wanted to stay in that house until I died. Not in some hospital or some nursing home, too insensate to know any better."

"I'm trying to look out for you," Tony argued. "Won't you even consider it?"

"No nursing home."

"Then come live with me."

"Who am I to you, Tony? Who am I?" Gibbs all but yelled. "Leave me alone. Let me die in peace. I'm old; I'm done." He turned and started walking down the sidewalk, towards a rent-by-the-week motel with a "no vacancy" sign.

"You need a ride," Tony shouted after him.

"I'm going for a walk."

* * *

Two hours later, and with skin gray and cold, Gibbs returned to the diner parking lot, a bag of groceries in one hand. It was pushing nine o'clock, so Tony's silver car was one of the few left. A freezing drizzle had started to fall, leaving the pavement damp and slick. Tony had waited patiently, leaning up against the wheel well of his car. He was shivering in the cold.

When Gibbs got close enough, he said, "You coulda gotten in the car, bonehead."

"You walked for that long?"

"No, grabbed groceries." Gibbs lifted the bag slightly.

Tony nodded easily, as if he hadn't just waited hours in the elements. With some difficulty, obviously hindered by his bum limb now stiff by the damp cold, he maneuvered himself inside the car. "Get in," he offered.

Gibbs followed, setting the bag on the floor between his feet. When he saw Tony reach to put the keys in the ignition, Gibbs put a hand on his wrist to stop him. They sat still for a while, their breath rising in the frigid air.

"What's the matter?" Tony asked, voice in a whisper.

"I remembered what happened to you and I'm sorry," Gibbs finally said.

"Nothin' to be sorry for, boss." Tony then removed his wrist from Gibbs' loose grip. "Let's go." He turned the key and put the car in gear.

(fin.)


End file.
